A Lesson in Fate
by Julie Poe
Summary: Tears of the Damned is completely revised! Focuses solely on Boromir and Faramir as youths. Includes their first battle. Please R&R!


_"The leaves were long, the grass was green,_

_The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,_

_And in the glade a light was seen-"_

"Silence please, dear Adan. Sing no more of that song; I cannot bear its drone." Boromir nervously and irritably paced the room, fiddling with his belt.

"Why does Father hide himself from me? He has always shared his thoughts with me. Adan, you are his friend, like a brother you are to him; surely he has spoken to you."

"Boromir, I know as much of this matter as you do. Do not be troubled, and have patience. Denethor will reveal all soon. Until then, you must continue with these studies."

"Adan, I do not see how the song of Beren and Luthien will help me!" Boromir said angrily. Adan smiled and shook his head.

"How like your father. Short-sighted and easily bored."

"That is far better than old and tedious," Boromir shot back, though a broad grin crossed his clean-shaven face. Insulting each other was one of the friends' favourite activities.

"And that is better than impetuous and anxious! Besides, the song teaches a very important lesson."

"And what is that?" Adan grinned mischievously.

"Never fall in love with an Elf. Some old fool will write a long and boring song about it."

"Is that really what you think?" Boromir asked, surprised. Adan shook his head.

"No. In truth, it is a beautiful poem. It speaks of courage, love, and death. But young souls like yourself would have no interest in it. Nevertheless, you should learn at least one of the ancient songs."

"If I must learn one, please, I pray, teach me an old battle song." Adan snorted indignantly.

"Bah! A battle song! Young sprout, battle songs are not worth learning! There is a new battle song for Gondor every year. I know, for I have written most of them. Hold a moment, I do remember a song a stranger sang once. Estel was his name I think. Fancy that! A man named 'Hope.'" Adan stopped and glared at Boromir. "Not that you would know that, little one. If you paid attention in your studies of Quenya and Sindarin-"

"Adan! Stop prattling and tell me the song!" Boromir said in mock exasperation.

Adan huffed, then closed his eyes for a moment, as if recalling the words.

_"Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the sea!  
West Wind blew there; the light upon the Silver tree  
Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of Old.  
O proud walls! White Towers! O winged crown and  
throne of gold!_

_O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree,  
Or west Wind blow again between the Mountains and  
the Sea?"_

"Adan, that is not a battle song," Boromir said. He had been hoping for a ballad filled with excitement, danger, good against evil, not a song praising Gondor.

"When you sing it in battle, it is!" Adan declared. "Very well, I shall sing a song of the Battle for Middle Earth in the Second Age."

_"The voices of doom were screaming then_

_DOOM, DOOM!_

_Evil came roaring from its den._

_DOOM, DOOM!_

_Sauron and his evil horde_

_DOOM, DOOM!_

_For Morgoth's claim all was assured._

_DOOM, DOOM!_

_Orcs, goblins, dark souls alike_

_DOOM, DOOM!_

_Gathered for the final fight._

_DOOM, DOOM!_

_The Last Alliance of Elves and Men,_

_Ai, ai!_

_Those never to unite again._

_Ai, ai!_

_Gil-galad and Elendil,_

_Ai, ai!_

_Whose bodies now lie cold and still._

_Ai, ai!_

_Surrendered life to give the free_

_Ai, ai!_

_A lost gold Ring and a dead white Tree._

_Ai, ai!_

_From Sauron's hand, his finger fell_

_A, a!_

_Elendil's Narsil slashed it well_

_A, a!_

Isildur's triumph came that day 

_A, a!_

_The hearts of all were light and gay_

_A, a!_

_Morgoth defeated, Sauron slain_

_A, a!_

_And lost now is Isildur's bane._

_A, a!"_

Adan took a deep breath of air before speaking again. The song had required much breath.

"You see? It is a purely foolish song. Any half-wit on the street could create a battle song."

"It was beautiful," Boromir said, not because it was beautiful, but for the sole satisfaction of contradicting his teacher.

"Bah! You are always contradicting! You, half-witted infantile hooligan, are worse than your father!" Adan decided. Boromir was about to reply, when suddenly he went to the window. Someone had caught his eye.

"Boromir, Adan! I have news from Father!" came a youthful voice from the streets.

"Speaking of half-wit, I believe I hear your brother," Adan said gruffly, though a small smile crossed his face. In truth, Faramir was perhaps the most intelligent man he had ever taught. However, his frequently asinine behaviour displayed in the presence of his older brother impressed upon Adan that the boy was a bit foolish.

"Do you think the poor fool will make it up the stairs without breaking his neck?" Adan asked grumpily.

"Faster than you or I could. He has the speed of an Elf and the agility of an eagle," Boromir loved his brother as much as Faramir worshipped him. Boromir was not at all hurt or disturbed by Adan's affronts; under them, the youth sensed an ardent fondness for the boy.

"Perhaps a dead eagle," Adan grumbled. At that moment, Faramir burst into the study. Boromir quickly met his brother and embraced him.

"Come, Brother. Sit at the table and find your wind. When you are ready, tell me the news."

"I have hardly lost a breath, good brother," Faramir replied. "Though I shall take your offer nonetheless." Faramir was much like his brother in appearance, with the same light brown hair, green eyes, and clean-shaven face. However, appearance was the only trait the two brothers shared. Boromir was an impatient youth, longing for adventure while Faramir had an old soul, spending his days learning the history and songs of Middle Earth. Though only sixteen, the boy had amassed more knowledge in one year than his elder brother had all his life.

"I am surrounded by infants who can hardly breathe," Adan grumbled. "Tell me, Boromir, why do you still walk among men clean-shaven? You mirror your brother, who is not even out of the age between."

"I made an oath not to grow a beard till I have struck down my first enemy. Do you not remember, old one?" Boromir asked quietly, joy abruptly quitting his face. Adan's face softened.

"I had forgotten of that oath. Forgive me dear boy, I am an old man with an occasionally forgetful nature," Adan huffed and turned to Faramir, whose face was marked with a bemused look. He knew nothing of his brother's oath, nor whom Boromir had sworn the oath.

"Well, tot, you came blundering up this domicile's ancient stairs for a purpose. You've had your breath, now, speak!"

"Father wishes to speak to both you and I. He says it is most important." Boromir cried out in delight. The silence had been broken. Adan laughed joyously.

"Ha, ha, ha! I told you, miscreant! Patience always serves for good!"

"And after the wait, haste is most desired!" Boromir cried happily. "We ride at once for the Tower, Brother!"

"What do you think he wants, Brother?" Faramir asked as he and Boromir rode through the streets of Minas Tirith.

"I do not know. Perhaps he wishes to bestow upon us our inheritance."

"That would be the greatest of hopes," Faramir replied quietly. In that tone, Boromir could detect apprehension. He decided to ignore it, for he too felt slightly apprehensive.

"My greatest hope would be to captain the Guard," Boromir said. "And I wish for you to become the next Steward of Gondor." Faramir blushed.

"Good Brother, I daren't think that I would succeed Father. I have not the skill for it."

"And I do? Besides, I think you would be an excellent ruler. You read the hearts of men easily, and you are kind and just."

"But you are also," Faramir said defensively. Boromir laughed.

"Brother, I have not the will for ruling, learning, farming, or loving. Only for fighting."

"Perhaps after your first taste of blood, you will change your mind," Faramir suggested. Boromir smiled.

"I fear that it shall not be so. Understand, dear Faramir, that this bloodlust in me was born inside me when I was but a child. It is something I cannot conquer, nor do I wish to conquer."

"I shall still hope for the quelling of that desire. Killing seems to be a terrible thing." Faramir paused, indicating that he wished to change the subject of the conversation.

"Besides, Father is deeply rooted in tradition. He will give the Stewardship to the eldest, and the more favoured of his sons."

At this, Boromir could not find the heart to speak again. He wished to protest, to say that Denethor loved both his sons equally, but it was not true. Denethor had always acted in favour of Boromir. He had given more attention, more time, and more love to his eldest son.

"Do not let your heart be troubled, dear Brother," Faramir said lightly, though his face was contorted with sorrow. "I shall be happy for anything our father gives me. But swear to me, Boromir, that I have your love, for if I do not, I have no desire to live." Boromir glanced at his brother, startled. Faramir had never sounded so dismal. Boromir could not let his brother despair in such a way.

"Brother, do you not know? I have loved you all my life. And I swear to you, on our mother's grave, that I will love you to my own end and beyond." They had reached the Tower, where Denethor resided. Boromir dismounted quickly and embraced his brother. Both brothers' eyes shone with unshed tears.

"Faramir, I will always be there for you, no matter where Father places you in his favour." He held Faramir's youthful face between his hands.

"Thank you, Boromir." They separated.

"Be ready, Brother, for our father's word, whether desired or unwelcomed, will rule our fates."

Denethor was in his library, as usual. Ever since his wife, Finduilas, had died, the Steward had used the room as a place where he could focus on his family.

Boromir and Faramir entered the room quietly and reverently. Denethor was at his table, a beautiful oak table with papers strewn on it. His head was bowed and he seemed to be pondering on something of great importance.

Suddenly, Denethor lifted his head. He saw his two sons and smiled.

"My sons. Sit down please. Give me a moment to gather my thoughts for I have something very important to tell you." Both hastily took their seats.

"How goes it with you?" Denethor asked. Boromir waited for Faramir to answer.

"I have been sword training, with Lord Gilhathel. He believes that I am prepared to train under the tutelage of Captain Orostan, if you approve." Boromir smiled happily. He knew that his brother was an excellent swordsman, nearly as skilled as he was.

"Very good! I do approve. Captain Orostan is a fine swordsman and will enjoy training you." Boromir started with surprise. Gilhathel had taught him and had approved him for Orostan's wilderness training at sixteen. However, Denethor had not allowed Boromir to go. What had caused this sudden change?

"And you, Boromir?" A warm smile crossed the Steward's face as he met his eldest son's gaze.

"Adan has been helping me with my studies," Boromir said. Denethor's warm smile turned mischievous.

"I hope you've been giving that old goat a hard time! I remember when he tutored me. I almost made him want to resign his position as Chief Advisor." Denethor chuckled for a second. But soon all warmth faded and Denethor began to address the purpose of their meeting.

"Sons, I have decided that it is time to bequeath each of you a standing in my kingdom."

"But, Father, there are no witnesses," Faramir intoned, confused.

"The true ceremony will be held three days hence. This proclamation is to prepare you for the ceremony where you will present an avowal to all of Gondor. Faramir, kneel before me."

Faramir rose from his chair and knelt before his father. Anticipation marked his face. Would Faramir be named Heir to the Stewardship?

"Faramir, son of Denethor II, Steward of Gondor, and Finduilas, Lady of Dol Amroth, I hereby declare you the future Captain of the Guard. You will travel to the northeastern border with your brother and there you will be taken into the confidence of Captain Orostan. He shall teach you the ways of war. I give you my blessing, and my love. Arise, Son." Faramir arose. Boromir noticed the lack of emotion on his brother's face. Boromir himself could hardly hide his dismay. Faramir was being placed in a position he did not desire, and that Boromir himself preferred. It also meant that Boromir was to be declared Heir of the Stewardship of Gondor.

"Thank you, Father," Faramir said, his face and voice bereft of emotion. Denethor smiled and embraced him, then kissed both his cheeks. Faramir bowed and stepped back.

"Step forward, Boromir." Boromir obeyed immediately. The Steward's smile grew, and Boromir suddenly noticed how aged his father looked. His hair was whiter, and there were more wrinkles on his noble face. He was thinner, and seemed slightly hunched. He had changed much since the youth had last seen him, which had been only three months before.

"Kneel, my son. Boromir, son of Denethor II, Steward of Gondor, and Finduilas, Lady of Dol Amroth, I hereby declare you the Heir of the Stewardship of Gondor. Arise, my son." Boromir felt a sudden tremor of excitement. Though he would not be what he wished, he would be given power. And power was something the Boromir secretly desired.

After Denethor embraced Boromir and kissed his cheeks, he glanced over at Faramir.

"Faramir, I wish to speak with your brother privately. When I have finished with him, I wish to share something with you also."

"Yes, my lord," Faramir said obediently, leaving the chamber.

"Boromir, my son, I must tell you now that your position as a Steward will be difficult. Evil is growing stronger every day. I fear open war in the years to come. One day soon, my son, I will look to you to make things right when I cannot correct them myself. Do you believe that you are capable of doing this?"

"Yes, Father," Boromir wanted to suggest that Faramir was better suited for the position, but he knew that Denethor would not be swayed.

"Good. Also, when you depart six days hence to the northeastern border, be cautious. Something worse than Orcs is lurking about."

"Do you fear Nazgûl?" Boromir asked, restraining a shudder. The very mention of those shadowy creatures struck fear into the hearts of men.

"Perhaps. Now go, summon your brother; I very much like to speak with him."

Boromir obeyed, and waited outside the chamber's door for his brother. As he sat, a thought occurred to him. He would be travelling a road fraught with Orcs, goblins, and other enemies of Gondor. It was the perfect path for battle and glory. Perhaps he would find his first kill on the journey.

"I was right, Boromir," Faramir said quietly, breaking into his thoughts. Boromir smiled sadly, and hugged his brother.

"In every way," he whispered. Faramir parted from him, wiping a tear away swiftly.

"Adan will not be pleased," Boromir said. "Perhaps he will take the matter up with Father. If anyone can sway our father, Adan is the man."

"I fear that Father will heed Adan's council as much as he heeds the rest of his personal advisor's," Faramir said gloomily, as they both knew that Denethor hardly ever listened to his advisors, sometimes not even Adan.

"Denethor, do not be a fool!" Adan cried angrily, slamming his staff into the ground. Denethor smiled coldly from his chair.

"What would you have me do, old friend? Give Faramir the Stewardship? Break tradition? I will not do so. Besides, war is coming soon. Sauron is preparing to wage war on all lands, not just Gondor. Gondor will need a strong military leader and Boromir will be that man."

"Faramir would lead your people-" Adan stopped suddenly. His blood froze in his veins. "Sauron, you say? He is moving?" Denethor nodded wearily.

"How do you know this?" Adan asked incredulously. How had he not been able to foresee this? Denethor's eyes shifted back and forth, as if deciding whether or not to tell Adan.

"I shall tell you," he said finally, "but you must take an oath of silence on your life and honour."

"I swear on my life and honour that what I receive in confidence from you today will never be spoken of to anyone else, even if I face endless torture," Adan said solemnly, grimacing as he spoke the words. Denethor rarely, if ever, asked for everlasting silence on a matter. Whatever issue this was, it had to be sinister and potent.

Denethor rose from his chair and went to the end of the room, where a large case of ancient scrolls lay. Utilizing much of his strength, the Steward pulled the case away from the wall. Behind the case, was a small passage, hardly wide enough for a grown man to traverse. Denethor led the old one through the passage. At the end was a small room, with a diminutive black table in its centre. On the black table was a round object concealed by a dark red coverlet. Denethor promptly removed the coverlet and smiled as he saw Adan's astonished visage.

"Denethor, what have you done?" He murmured. Denethor smiled.

"It is the Anor-stone," he said grandly. "One of the last of the great Seeing-Stones. Through this stone, I have seen many things. I have seen Sauron rise, and Lothlorien flourish. I have seen Elrond Half-Elven raise a young man whom he believes to be the Heir of Isildur. I have seen you travel to Isenguard and speak with Curunir, Mithrandir, and Radagast the Brown. I have seen Mithrandir visit the Shire and I have seen Saruman desperately search the Anduin. All of these speak to me, Adan. They speak of coming disaster." Denethor paused for a moment. "Adan, do not seek counsel in Curunir anymore. He is tainted with a lust for power. He is searching for the Ring of Power."

"Curunir lost to the Enemy? How can it be? The most powerful of the Istari and he has fallen? It cannot be," Adan moaned, for if the Istari, the Wizards from foreign lands, could not resist the Ring, all was lost.

"Do not despair entirely, old friend, for Gandalf still has a heart of goodness. I believe that he knows the whereabouts of the Ring, and keeps it to himself. However," Denethor continued, his face growing bleaker by the moment. "Sauron is searching for it. He will find it eventually. As he searches for the Ring, he begins to gather all forces of evil to him. Yet even as he does these things, he searches for weakness in the free lands of Middle Earth. He remembers the errors of Isildur and exploits it. His Eye sees all." With this, Denethor almost sagged against the wall. Adan covered the Stone and faced his friend.

"Has he seen you, my lord?" Adan asked quietly.

"Many years ago, when I came upon the Palantir, I began a contest of wills. Sauron knows I have seen too much. He also believes I am much like Isildur, easily trapped by power. He is tempting me, seducing me with promises of power. I have fought hard, but Sauron is stronger. I am growing weary. I feel thin, and stretched."

"And that is why you age every time I see you," Adan murmured in sad realization. Denethor nodded.

"I know my strength fades every day. Soon I shall either yield or pass into shadow."

"Destroy the Palantir, Denethor," Adan said desperately. "Cast into the sea or flame or the forgotten depths of Moria but do not let it have hold on you anymore!"

"I cannot do that, Adan," Denethor said. "Without the Stone, I am blind to all plans of Sauron."

"You are blind anyway!" Adan cried fervently. "Do you think that Sauron would be foolish enough to let his plans lie naked in a world full of powerful magic, like that of Curunir and Galadriel?"

"And what of Curunir?" Denethor asked heatedly. "If I cast away this Stone, as you would have me do, Curunir would go about undetected once more. No, I must keep it. Even if I cannot see Sauron, Curunir is plainly visible and in need of surveillance. Now leave my sight; I am weary, and I should like to retire. Remember your oath, old one."

"Yes, my lord," Adan said, wishing with all his being, that he had not taken that oath.

Three days later, the people of Gondor prepared for that night, for on that night, Denethor's sons would embrace their appointed future.

Boromir, his anxiety concerning his unwanted fate forgotten, hardly listened to any words uttered to him. And so many a folk were uttering! Adan, Denethor, Faramir, Lord Gilhathel, his friends, the female servants; everyone had some piece of advice for the youth. The female servants' words, however, were not useful.

Their remarks were flattering but shallow, and after several such remarks (accompanied by shy smiles and playful winks), Boromir found himself at his edge of control.

"Silence!" Boromir finally shouted, when Imrahil commented on his broadsword. "If I hear one more remark on my attire… forgive me, Prince Imrahil," Boromir gulped when he suddenly realized who he was threatening. Imrahil, his face stony, nodded curtly.

"Excuse me, Lord Boromir. I must speak with your father."

"Denethor, I do not believe Boromir is ready for training, much less the Stewardship," Imrahil murmured quietly to Denethor. The two were in the Steward's chambers.

"Nonsense," Denethor waved his hand lazily, resting in his chair. "He is of age. I was chosen as Steward at the age of seventeen."

"Boromir is not like you. Yes, he is strong-willed, but he is still struggling to find his place. And he has a horrid temper. How do you expect him to lead his troops? There are many other strong-willed Rangers, and several of them will have authority over him."

"Captain Orostan will treat him fairly," Denethor said. He refused to except that his eldest son was anything less than perfect.

"I was speaking of Lieutenant Raan. Raan is cruel, and will use any excuse to start a fight. Boromir will be a perfect candidate for a fight. He's young, inexperienced, bad tempered, and has an even younger brother. Raan will bully Faramir enough to goad Boromir. And speaking of Faramir, I do not think it wise for you to send him to Orostan so soon. He is but a boy. Lord Gilhathel has only trained his sword, not his mind."

Denethor rose, angered.

"I have made my choices and do not wish for them to be questioned. Boromir is ready, as is Faramir." Denethor scowled at Imrahil. "You have spoken with Adan, haven't you?"

"Yes, my lord. You must heed our counsel-"

"Enough! I heed no one's counsel but my own!" Denethor snapped angrily.

"Heed my words!" Imrahil said as he rose from his chair. He stepped forward, slamming his palms on the desk in front of him. "Cease your foolish behaviour before your sons suffer!"

"Are you threatening my sons?" Denethor asked, rising as well.

"I am trying to warn you!" Imrahil responded. "You are placing your sons in danger!"

"I have heard enough! Now, I will speak to Boromir about his 'temper.' But my decision is final."

"I felt extremely goaded," Boromir said to his father, explaining his earlier behaviour.

"By whom?" Denethor asked in concern. Boromir quickly recounted his experiences with the servant girls.

"I cannot abide them! All that they seem to care for are menial, foolish aspects of life. If I so much as speak to one of them, even in a raised voice, they nearly swoon. I fervently wish that I will never be forced to take one of those shallow kittens as my bride. I do not wish to marry at all!" Denethor smiled.

"My son, those were the very words I uttered to my father around your age. Not all women are 'shallow kittens,' as you call them. There are many wise, kind, and gentle ladies. Your mother was one of them." Silence passed between the two as father and son recalled Finduilas, the extinguished light of Denethor's world.

Boromir could remember much of his mother. He remembered her green eyes, always alight with emerald fire, and her golden brown hair. He remembered her sweet voice as she sang a lullaby she had written herself. No elf could have matched her in beauty or in skill of song. But she had passed away when he was but ten years old. He remembered the black day of her death. Her skin had been so pale, so delicate, and she was like a small starflower caught in the torrential rains of a violent storm. As the storm of her sickness preyed upon her weakened body, young Boromir had watched as the fire died in her eyes, and her hand slipped from Denethor's and the world seemed to have come to a cruel end…

A cool wet drop fell onto Boromir's hand, wrenching him from the nightmare. He looked up, and realized his father was crying.

"Oh, Finduilas, if only you could come back to Middle Earth, and see your family, condemned to suffer the length of our long lives' without your wonderful presence," Denethor mourned.

"Oh, Father." Boromir embraced his father, holding him not as a son would, but as Ecthelion had the day Finduilas had passed away.

Three long hours later, Denethor, Boromir, Faramir, Adan, and a few other men upon the White Tower's balcony. Below them lay a sea of people, a multitude which seemed to gently sway like seas on a peaceful day at sea.

"People of Gondor! Friends of old and new! Visitors from near and afar. We have gathered on this momentous day to acknowledge the fates of two Sons of Gondor!" His exclamation was received by loud cheers.

"The times we live in, my kinfolk, are those of trouble. Darkness is rising in the East, and the free lands are in a state of disunion and weakness. Even our beloved Gondor has no king." Silence fell upon the crowd as they drank in Denethor's blunt words. Boromir could hear a collective sigh. It had been many years since a king had sat upon the throne of Gondor.

"But I say to you, fellow Gondorians, that Gondor needs no king!" Denethor cried defiantly. "Gondor needs only a general to lead its people into battle. It has no need for a man to endow the weak art of diplomacy, nor write new laws. Diplomacy will fall against the darkness and new laws merely repeat those of old." Many of Denethor's advisors gazed at him incredulously. His words bordered on treason!

"It was these thoughts by which I have chosen the future Steward of Gondor. In the times ahead, we will need a strong leader. We will need a man of unparalleled military prowess. That is why I have chosen Boromir, of the House of Húrin to succeed me as Steward," Denethor announced, his voice full of pride. The crowd responded with jubilant cheers.

"And what better man to captain the Guard under Boromir's rule than Faramir of the house of Húrin?" He asked the multitude. The response was yet another ecstatic cheer.

"The people of Gondor approve!" He cried in satisfaction. "Kneel before me, Boromir, to accept your title." Glancing once at Faramir and Adan, Boromir knelt before his father.

"Boromir, son of Denethor II and Finduilas, do you solemnly swear to accept your position as the Steward of Gondor, to protect your people with your sword and your life, through the darkness and the light, through trial and tribulation, until you have breathed your last?"

"I do," Boromir affirmed.

"Do you swear to lead your people by example, living in truth and in honour?"

"I do."

"And do you swear to rule them by justice and love, not with fear and hate?"

"I do." Denethor smiled, pleased.

"Then arise, Lord Boromir, future heir of the Stewardship of Gondor." Boromir obeyed.

"As in the tradition of my forefathers," Denethor began, pausing as Adan suddenly began to cough, "I wish to present to my eldest son a gift to avow his new title." Denethor turned away from the crowd a moment and nodded at a soldier behind him. The soldier saluted and disappeared for a moment. He returned with a dark wooden box, no more than three feet long and two feet wide. It was beautifully decorated with Elvish runes, inlaid with silver and precious stones. Boromir had seen the box many times before. It had lain in his father's study, untouched for many years. Once as a boy, Boromir had opened the case. His father had been away at that time, and Adan had lain in a deep slumber. He still remembered the rush of excitement as he opened the ancient box, for he knew he was disobeying his father's commands. He had been quite disappointed when he had found the box vacant.

"I present to you, Lord Boromir, the Horn of Gondor." Boromir took the precious horn with both hands, amazed by the beauty of it. It was a large ox horn, ivory in colour and was bound in bright silver. Boromir had seen it at his father's side many a time, but had understood neither its importance nor its beauty.

"If you are ever in need of assistance, my son, simply call by the Horn and you shall receive help."

"Thank you, Father." Denethor embraced his son. Boromir stepped backwards as Denethor then turned to Faramir.

"Step forward, Faramir."

"Do you, Faramir, solemnly swear to obey the Ruler of Gondor, whomever that may be?"

"I do," Faramir's eyes were hard, and his voice seemed almost bitter.

"Do you swear to protect the people of Gondor by your life and death?"

"I swear."

"And do you swear allegiance to your Captain, Captain Orostan, till the day you breathe your last?"

"I swear."

"Then arise, Lord Faramir, future Captain of the Guard."

"Here is your gift," Denethor said, his voice suddenly quiet. He reached around his own neck, unfastening the clasp of a hidden necklace. He placed that necklace round his younger son's neck. Faramir glanced down at the ornament, surprised.

"I made a promise to Finduilas to give this to you when the time came. It is a precious heirloom of her family. Its chain is mithril and gold intertwined, and its charm is Ithildin and sapphire. Be careful at night, if you do not wish to be detected, for its charm will shine in moonlight and starlight. Remember, son, that Finduilas loved you. Give honour to her name."

"I will, Father," Faramir said solemnly. Boromir barely controlled a grimace when Denethor neither embraced his youngest son nor professed his paternal love. Denethor turned back to the spectators, eagerly awaiting his words.

"Three days hence, the Lords Boromir and Faramir shall embark on a journey to the encampment of the Dúnedain, lying on the very border of Mordor. There they shall be taken into the confidence of the remarkable Captain Orostan, who will teach them the art of battle." Denethor turned to face his sons.

"Go now, noble sons of Gondor," Denethor said, raising his arms. "For the time has come for you to learn the ways of war."

Captain Orostan sent twelve Rangers to accompany Boromir and Faramir on their treacherous journey to the Dark Border, as the northeastern border of Gondor was called. Their leader, a Lieutenant Raan, resented both Boromir and Faramir for unknown reasons, and irritated the two constantly with menial chores and asked questions that he thought they could not answer.

"So tell me, Boromir," Raan had asked one evening when Faramir had been sent to collect firewood, "how do you kill an Orc?" Boromir ignored him and began to sharpen his sword. A dark shadow passed over Raan's face.

"Insolent lout, you were asked a question by a superior and an elder," the lieutenant growled murderously. "Answer the question." Boromir looked up and returned the lethal glare with his own. He sheathed his sword with a loud crack. He smiled with satisfaction as Raan flinched.

"First, you slash at his face," Boromir said. "Then, when the poor devil is screaming about his eyes, you slash at his stomach. And while the creature is trying to keep his black innards from spewing out, you cleave his head from his body." It was a fatuous question, with many answers. Boromir knew that the lieutenant tried to be a unsettling as possible, and so the youth had answered in the most unsettling manner he could muster.

Raan frowned deeply and sat back down, for Boromir had answered correctly, in the lieutenant's opinion. Raan sulked only for a few moments, for Faramir had returned, his arms full of wood. Raan sniggered in delight.

"Faramir, you dolt! Can't you see the fire is large enough!" He cackled, and as the youth went by, he tripped him. Faramir cried out in surprise, and fell toward Boromir. Boromir had not the chance to move before his brother fell on top of him.

The whole of the camp had awakened at Faramir's cry, and approached the threesome. Raan was guffawing loudly, Faramir was silent in a humiliated fashion, but Boromir shook with nearly irrepressible rage.

"Stupid, clumsy boy!" Raan hooted. "Didn't your mother teach you to walk? Oh, that's right, she died before she could."

It was the final insult. Boromir rose, drawing his sword. Its blade glittered in the firelight.

"At least my mother was not a Warg, like yours," Boromir said, his voice trembling slightly. He knew that his challenge could lead to his own death. The Rangers stepped back as Raan rose, his face dark with fury.

"That was not a wise choice of words, boy," Raan growled, drawing his own sword.

"Then allow me to rephrase, for I was insulting the Warg." Boromir felt more confident. Raan was an archer, not a swordsman. Boromir had heard his father criticizing the wicked lieutenant for his ineptness with a blade. Perhaps he could be beaten by Boromir's unblooded blade.

"Your mother was Warg's plaything, since no man could give her love, for she was more ugly than a faceless Orc." Raan exploded with a roar of fury. He leapt forward.

Suddenly, something inside Boromir screamed in glee. He let out his own cry, and met Raan.

The first clash was powerful. Boromir flinched as the shock went up his arm. Never, in all the long and dreary hours of repetitive sword practice, had he fought against such reckless hate and rage. Lord Gilhathel had never shown emotion when the two had sparred, and has always kept his great strength in check.

He quickly recovered from the first stroke and sent a blow towards Raan's face. He could see the panic on the lieutenant's face as he desperately tried to block the ruthless strike. Boromir smiled. He had him.

Pulling his blade back slightly, Boromir realigned his attack, aiming for Raan's right arm. Raan, who proved to be a poor swordfighter, could not parry the blow. The blade, swung with such power, passed through his upper arm, and caught itself on his ribcage. The arm plopped to the ground, lifeless. Raan screamed, a fountain of blood erupting from his shoulder. He collapsed, blubbering like a child.

Boromir stood over Raan, the new warrior's chest heaving, his face salt white. Then a swift downward blow decapitated the lieutenant's head in a burst of blood. Boromir stepped back, a grim smile marking his face. It was the first kill.

Faramir rose, face pale, unable to avert his gaze from the dead lieutenant. The blood flowed on the ground so heavily that it was black.

Boromir snapped out of the stupor first, and turned his brother away from the now dead Raan. He embraced his brother, as if to remind both himself and Faramir that he was not a mindless killer.

"Are you alright, Faramir?" he asked. Faramir nodded numbly. Boromir, his wits now collected, returned to Raan's body, and cleaned the blade on Raan's pants. He sheathed his blooded blade with a sudden satisfaction.

Boromir turned to the Rangers. Their facial expressions were those of horror, astonishment, and respect.

"I am now in charge," he said coldly. "If any of you have words against me or my brother, then speak out now."

"Orcs! Orcs!" Suddenly, a Ranger, who had been on watch duty for that night, entered the camp. "Where is Raan? There are Orcs coming from the east!"

"He is dead," Boromir answered brusquely. "I am in command. How close are they?"

Before the man could answer, an arrow embedded itself in his back. With a strangled cry, he sank to the ground.

There was no time for orders, for flight, or for thought. The Orcs had come.

"Faramir, get behind me!" Boromir ordered tersely. Faramir obeyed as both drew their swords. Then the Orcs were upon them.

Boromir had never seen a live Orc before. Adan had shown many depictions of them, but the pictures were nothing similar to the actual creatures. They were horrible, their skin a blue-grey green, wrinkled and bloodied from fights. Most were hairless, and their ears were comparable to an Elf's, but were longer and far more hideous. Their screeches were foul and they cursed the Men of Gondor in their strange tongue. But nothing was crueller than their swords and bows.

There were only twenty of them, and only five were archers. But two Men lay dead already, and two more had been wounded after the first fell. But Boromir did not realize his plight; he was too busy cutting down the Orcs who dared challenge him.

The first Orc had been easy. He had thrown himself at Boromir without any means of defence. Boromir ran him through swiftly. Ripping his blade from the mess of his victim's intestines, he parried the blow of the second Orc's scimitar. Boromir was no longer thinking; something inside had taken over his body, directing his every move. He moved with incredible speed, and behind each blow was immense strength. In less than one night, Boromir had become a warrior.

But not all of Gondor's soldiers were as fortunate as Boromir. Two more had already fallen, both struck down by the archers.

"Faramir!" Boromir cried, his voice nearly drowned in the clamour of battle. "We must bring down the archers!" Faramir, who had been separated from Boromir during the fight, nodded grimly, his own blade dark with blood.

The archers had positioned themselves on the perimeter of the battle, though they were doing more harm to their own kind than good. Twice they had levelled their black arrows on the eldest son of Denethor and twice they had slain two of their kinsmen.

Faramir quickly killed two of the archers and came to the aid of one of the six remaining men, while Boromir killed the other three bowmen. He was about to deliver the final blow to the last bowman when a slice of pure agony opened up in the back of his leg. An Orc had come from behind and had slashed at the flesh just above his right knee. Boromir cried out and fell to the ground, his leg no longer able to bear his body's weight. The Orc then stood over him, raising his sword.

"No!" A youthful voice screamed. Suddenly, the Orc dropped his weapon and screamed in pain as a Gondorian blade passed through his midsection. Blood dripping from his mouth, he fell on top of Boromir.

The Orc was abnormally large and heavy. Boromir, weakened by his wound, was not able to move the bulk. A sudden claustrophobia struck the youth and he began to panic. His breath shortened and his heart was gripped with the fear of asphyxiation.

The foul stench of blood, sweat, mead, and other horrible things filled Boromir's nostrils. He gagged, and his vision began to blur. The pain, the fear, and the stench were too much. He swooned.

_Awaken, Boromir, son of Denethor. Sleep no longer, for things have been amiss in your absence._ A sweet voice, much like his mother's, brought Boromir back into consciousness. He stirred, shifting slightly. The slight move, however, brought a world of pain upon his senses.

_Where am I? _He wondered. Then the actions that night came back to him. Raan's death. The Orc attack. His wounding, then the Orc falling on top of him, then the blackness…

Faramir! Where was his brother?

Pain forgotten, Boromir, with a grunt of effort, pushed the Orc carcass off him and rose. He called his brother's name, anxiety slowly creeping into his gut. The night was still, and the moon shone brightly on the scene of battle. And Faramir did not respond.

Hobbling amongst the dead, Boromir unceremoniously kicked over the bodies of Men whose faces had lain facing the ground. But try as he might, he could not find his brother. He began to weep.

"Oh, Faramir! Good brother! Where are you? If you are not dead, then reveal yourself to me, but if you are indeed dead, then I cannot live anymore." Boromir propped himself up against a sole tree, all hope gone for his lost brother.

Then, out of the night, Faramir appeared. His face was pale and he clutched his left breast, but he was alive.

"Boromir," he called weakly, falling to his knees. Boromir, hearing his own name spoken, glanced up and rejoiced. He ran to his brother's side.

"How badly are you hurt?" Boromir asked, noticing the blood flowing between Faramir's fingers.

"Enough to make me regret accepting Father's word," Faramir mused weakly, allowing Boromir to examine the wound. It seemed shallow, starting just under his armpit and curving up to his scapula, but it was bleeding swiftly. Blood soaked the entire left side of Faramir's tunic and the top of his pants. Boromir noticed this in growing horror. It was far too much blood. Boromir watched as his brother began to sway unsteadily.

"Boromir, I am so tired. I feel that I cannot stay awake any longer. May I rest?"

_The sleep of which he speaks leads to a long dark path ultimately ending in death,_ a voice whispered in Boromir's mind. He shivered. He could not imagine innocent, sweet Faramir facing such a cruel fate.

"Not yet, dear brother, not for a long while. Orcs will be coming. We must find a place to conceal ourselves till morning light."

"I do not think I shall last till morning. Leave me here, Boromir, and save yourself."

Boromir shook his head violently. The very thought of deserting his dear brother was unbearable.

"And leave you to the torture of the Orcs? I would rather die ten thousand deaths, each crueller than its forerunner, than let you die so horribly." Faramir smiled gratefully.

"Then perhaps that wood over there will serve for shelter. When I gaze upon it, a strange warmth fills my heart."

"That will serve. Come; I shall bear you most of the way."

The trek to the wood was long and painful. Boromir's leg, though no longer bleeding, was in intense pain. It could barely hold his body's weight, much less his brother's. But Faramir could not walk on his own; breathing was becoming difficult for him. And through the night air, both could hear the few but terrifying shrieks of more Orcs. Boromir estimated that about ten Orcs were searching for them, and ten was more than enough.

The two had just reached the trees when Faramir could not bear the agony of his wound any longer. Tears of pain sprang from his eyes.

"Please, please, Boromir, set me down; do not take me any farther. The pain is too much." His breath was heavy. Boromir took a few more steps, putting the two in the wood's safety and gently laid his brother against the trunk of the tree.

"Forgive me, Faramir," Boromir said.

"What have you done that has deserved forgiveness?" Faramir rasped, grimacing.

"I am sorry for everything. For Father's favour, for killing Raan, for not even trying to argue with Father about your position."

"Don't be. There was nothing you can do. I have lived my life to the best of my capability-"

"For only sixteen years!" Boromir cried in anguish.

"And now it is time for me to embrace the Gift of Men- Death. But I should very much like to die near you, for you are the only one who has loved me truly all my life."

"Oh, Faramir," Boromir could not hold back the tears anymore. He gingerly lifted his brother into his arms, kissing his forehead.

"Farewell, dear Boromir. I love you."

"Please don't say that, Faramir. It is not your time yet, I swear it is not!"

"Fate is calling to me, Brother. I can hear it, as surely as I can hear you speak. Boromir, before I go, could you… could you sing for me?"

Boromir, his eyes wet with tears, desperately tried to recall a song, any song. He had never listened to Adan's songs, for he had found them dreary. He cursed himself for his lack of attention.

Then one came to him. It had been a song his mother had sung to him, when he was younger. She had written it herself, pouring all her love and tenderness into the lullaby.

_"Can you hear the night's deep song?  
All the shadows say  
Telling you when you're asleep,  
Tears will fade away _

_Dream of morning's golden light  
When you and I will leave the night..._

_And when the moon is high and bright,  
Stars will shine on you_

_Dream of morning's golden light  
When you and I will leave the night..._

_Make a wish and when you close your eyes  
I will come to you_

_Dream of morning's golden light  
When you and I will leave the night..._

_Make a wish and when you close your eyes  
I will come to you."_

There was a long stretch of silence before the brothers spoke again. For a long moment, Boromir thought his brother had died.

"Oh, Faramir, please do not leave me now," he begged, tears streaming down his face.

"I am not gone yet. It was a beautiful song; I could not find the words to describe it, thus I did not speak." Boromir closed his eyes in sweet relief. Somewhere inside him, a flicker of hope had increased. Perhaps Faramir would survive the night.

And then he heard an Orc's cry and saw it point in the wood's direction. They had been discovered.

In Rivendell, Lord Elrond was speaking with his daughter, Arwen, of a certain man. In Lothlorien, Galadriel lay with Celeborn and dreamed. In Mirkwood, Prince Legolas was hunting Orc. But where was Boromir?

_You cannot hide, Denethor,_ an insidious voice whispered. _I see you._ Then all became shadow, except for the ever-growing circle of yellow and orange flame. The evil Eye had found him.

And out of that flame, _he_ appeared.

"I will win," Sauron assured the Steward.

"No. You cannot win. There are too many powerful forces of good." Denethor tried to sound strong, but the Eye was growing, usurping what strength he had.

"Perhaps. But many will die before I fall. Including your sons." Denethor's blood chilled. Suddenly, the Eye disappeared, and Denethor was surrounded by a starry night, near the Grey Wood. There he saw his two sons. Faramir was sitting on the ground, staring at his older brother while Boromir was locked in combat with Raan. The fight lasted only for a moment more, as his son drove his blade through Raan's arm and cut into his ribcage. Then the Orcs came. He watched as Faramir was wounded and cried in horror as Boromir fell. His son was about to depart from the world when Faramir struck the Orc down, crying out.

Denethor heard the scream of a Nazgûl as it passed over the silent battlefield. He saw Faramir, barely conscious, cry out as fear invaded his mind.

Then he came to the edge of the Grey Wood, and watched as Boromir held his brother, singing Finduilas' song. Faramir's face was pale.

"He is dying," Sauron whispered. "Soon he will pass into shadow, taken by fear that he will die unloved by you."

"No!" Denethor cried. "Faramir! Do not leave me, son!" But Faramir was fading, not from his own physical wounds, but by fear the Nazgûl had infected his mind with.

More Orcs were coming, having discovered the resting place of the Steward's sons. Denethor watched in horror as Boromir gently laid his brother aside, and stepped out of the wood, battle cry torn from his lips, blade flashing in the night.

"No! Boromir, no!"

"Brother, do not go," Faramir begged, his hands reaching for his brother's. Boromir seized the searching hands and gripped them tightly. He did not wish to die, he did not wish for Faramir to die, but their fates had been sealed.

"I will not let your body be desecrated by these foul creatures. I will die as a man and as a warrior this night. Farewell." Boromir kissed the youth's forehead, releasing Faramir's white hands. He stepped back from his brother, and saluted with his sword, as a warrior would. He was complete. He was a blooded warrior, and was preparing to die as one.

"Be at peace." He could no longer feel pain, emotional or physical. All he could feel was the burning desire in his blood to kill, to make the black blood of the Orcs spill onto the ground. He pressed the Horn of Gondor to his lips and blew hard. Then, screaming his war cry, he threw himself onto Death's path.

There were only nine, but nine Orcs, not even well trained Orcs, could easily handle one inexperienced and wounded youth. Nonetheless, the first Orc fell, his amputated arm flying through the air, startling his companions. They shrieked in anger, and advanced toward the youth slowly.

Boromir raised his sword in defence, preparing to fend off the eight grim blades now pointed at his throat. His heart pounded as he gazed into the cold, black eyes of the closest Orc. There so much hate in that fierce gaze, so much malice. The dark creature licked his lips, as if thirsty. Boromir knew the Orc thirsted for his blood, and bent on the destruction of the young Gondorian.

Suddenly, the pound of horse hooves against the ground halted the enemy's advance. There was a sudden shout in the night, the shout that warriors cried before plunging into battle.

To Boromir's weary eyes, they seemed to materialize out of the darkness. They were shadows one moment, and mighty warriors of Gondor the next, carried by swift steeds who fearlessly charged the nine doomed Orcs.

In only moments, the Orcs fell to the ground, writhing and screaming as they died. Boromir stared in shock at the bleeding bodies of his would-be slayers. It seemed unreal.

_It cannot be possible_, he thought to himself dimly. He should not have survived that night. A young soldier with an unblooded blade survived a duel, and two battles, and had hardly been wounded.

"Are you alright, sir?" One of the soldiers asked him. He nodded.

"My brother. He's in the woods. He's injured badly." Boromir could barely force the words from his mouth. His strength was exhausted.

Suddenly, the dark world began to spin, and Boromir slumped to the ground, gratefully falling into a dreamless, peaceful sleep.

Consciousness came back to Boromir slowly. He winced as his senses were suddenly overwhelmed by sunlight, pain, and the smell of meat roasting over a fire.

"Welcome back to the realm of the living, Lord Boromir," a deep masculine voice said.

"Where am I?" Boromir asked, shielding his eyes from the light.

"You are at the encampment of the Dunedain." Boromir gingerly dropped his hand from his face, unsure if his eyes had adjusted to the bright sunlight shining through the open tent flap.

Before him was a tall man, with dark hair clinging to his shoulder blades. His eyes were a dark brown, and they stared back at the son of Denethor, filled with concern.

"I am Orostan, captain of the guard. Do not rise," Orostan warned, for Boromir began to honour his captain by standing and saluting, "You have a badly torn muscle in your right leg. Any further agitation and you may never see battle again."

"How were you able to find me?" Boromir asked, relaxing. Orostan smiled.

"I came to meet Lieutenant Raan, for several scouts had reported Orc and Nazgûl movement near his intended route of travel. We encountered the camp, and discovered no signs of life. We were about to depart when we saw you engaging another small party of Orcs. Naturally, we came to your aid. You should consider yourself blessed, Boromir. Not only did you survive two Orc attacks, but you also evaded Nazgûl. They passed by not long before the second Orc attack."

"Blessed, Captain Orostan? No, I am not blessed. I am wounded, bound to become the Steward, and my brother is dead!" He closed his eyes, the image of his brother's face imprinted in his mind. Surely, Faramir had not survived the night.

"You are blessed, Boromir," Orostan argued. "Fate has spared you from death, as well as your brother." Boromir's eyes flew open.

"Faramir lives?" He asked, not daring to trust his hearing.

"Yes. He is alive and well."

"Where is he? Take me to him!"

"You cannot move, Boromir. I-"

"I do not care if I go lame! I must see my brother!"

"I was about to say that it is not necessary for you to move. Faramir will come to you. His wounds are no longer threatening. Now hold still for a moment, and I shall fetch him." Orostan stared at him a moment longer. Would the boy obey him?

The Captain chose to trust the youth, and exited the tent, securing the flap behind him.

Boromir waited, impatiently, for hope to return to him. He still did not dare believe that Orostan spoke the truth. He needed to see Faramir with his own eyes. He needed to touch his brother, embrace him, and feel the youth's living flesh against his own.

Only then could he believe that fate had indeed shown grace to him.

The tent flap opened slowly, and sunlight flooded in once again. Boromir first saw Orostan, who held back the tent flap.

Then another entered the tent, his arm in a sling, his stride slow. His green eyes lit with happiness as he gazed upon the eldest son of Denethor. A smile came to his lips.

"It is good to see you are awake, Brother," Faramir said, taking Boromir's hand. "How do you feel?"

"Blessed by fate," Boromir said. Orostan grinned.

"I shall leave you two alone for a few moments."

"How were you…?" Boromir's voice trailed off. Faramir grinned sheepishly.

"My wounds were not as mortal as I thought. Orostan tells me that yours were actually worse than mine. I must apologize for my behaviour last night. I must have frightened you very much." Boromir saw his brother's eyes were filled with shame.

"Do not be troubled, Faramir. Last night I thought both of us were doomed."

"Yet you were the one who took a stand. You chose to fight fate, while I timidly surrendered. I now see that Father was right in choosing you to succeed him. You are a far more courageous man than I shall ever be."

"Do not say such things, Faramir! You have far more courage than I shall ever have. You have suffered much disappoint and hurt; yet you have endured it so quietly. Such perseverance requires much courage, Brother. Let Denethor speak of courage, for he knows nothing of it! If he did, then he surely would have favoured you over me." Boromir stopped abruptly, realizing he had maligned his own father.

Boromir brushed away the thought, and squeezed Faramir's hand in encouragement. It was not Denethor who needed heartening words; it was Faramir.

"You are a good man, Faramir. Never allow yourself or anyone else to tell you otherwise. I would not be willing to die for someone worthless or cowardly. And I am willing to die for you, Faramir. I would kill for you, and I would die for you in a heartbeat. May fate hold me to that." Faramir closed his eyes for a moment, startled by Boromir's words. Never had his brother spoken so passionately.

Then he opened his eyes, and Boromir saw the shame had been washed away. Only love, tainted with bitterness, remained.

"Have you learned nothing of fate, dear Boromir? Fate is like our father. It heeds no promises, nor listens to the cries of man. You will not die for me."

"I suppose I should not try to predict the course of the future."

"Nor should I," Faramir replied. The bitterness faded, and he smiled.

"You should get some rest, Boromir." Faramir patted his brother's shoulder, and left the tent.

Boromir watched his brother leave, his heart filled with questions he had never dared to ask. What was his fate? Would he die in battle, giving his life for Gondor? Or would he die an old man, with a full life of happiness and friendship?

Boromir did not know which. He was only certain that he would never know until fate chose to take him. He could only hope that fate would grant him a honourable death.

He leaned back, closing his eyes. Adan would be proud that he was pondering his future. Perhaps he had learned something from the ancient advisor.

But Boromir could no longer wonder. There were other tasks at hand, chiefly recuperating. His wound needed to heal, if he was to die the honourable death he desired. In order to heal, he needed to rest his body.

Sleep beckoned to him, and he chose to surrender, for he knew that sleep, like fate, was relentless.


End file.
